The moon hung low over Eryndor, a blood-red sickle slicing through a sky choked with storm clouds. The kingdom was rotting from within, its fields scorched by unnatural fires, its villages reduced to graveyards of splintered wood and bone. For weeks, a feral chill had gripped the land, sinking claws into the hearts of its people. Whispers carried tales of shadows moving in the night—shadows with eyes that burned like embers and teeth that gleamed like daggers. The Suldari, a clan long thought extinct, had returned. And with them came the curse of the beast.
Lord Magnus Virek stood at the edge of his war camp, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the flickering glow of distant pyres. His storm-gray eyes, sharp as a predator's, traced the horizon where the Black Hills loomed like the spine of some ancient, slumbering monster. In his hand, he clutched a tattered map, its edges curling like burned flesh. The map marked the Suldari's advance, but it was not their numbers that haunted him. It was the primal hunger he felt in the air—a hunger that stirred something deep within his own blood.
Magnus was no stranger to war. He had carved his name into Eryndor's history with steel and fire, a man forged in battle and tempered by loss. But this was no ordinary enemy. The Suldari were not just men; they were vessels for a curse older than the mountains, a lycanthropic plague that twisted flesh and soul into something monstrous. Magnus had seen the aftermath: villages torn apart, bodies mangled, claw marks raked across stone walls. And worse, he had felt it—the pull of the moon, the itch beneath his skin, the whisper in his veins that promised power and ruin.
He was no fool. He knew the truth. The curse was not just theirs. It was his.
Footsteps crunched through the frost behind him, pulling Magnus from his thoughts. Kiera, his fiercest lieutenant, approached, her black leather armor gleaming like obsidian in the moonlight. Her dark hair was pulled tight, her face a mask of resolve, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. Kiera was a blade honed to perfection, loyal to Magnus beyond question, yet even she could sense the unnatural dread that hung over them.
"They've taken the eastern valleys," she said, her voice low and steady. "The survivors… they spoke of wolves. Not animals, Magnus. Men who became beasts under the moon."
Magnus's jaw tightened, but he didn't turn to face her. "I know."
Kiera stepped closer, her boots sinking into the frozen earth. "The capital is next. If we don't stop them, Eryndor falls. But this isn't just about swords and strategy. You've felt it, haven't you? The curse."
Her words struck like a blade to the gut. Magnus's hand twitched, the map crumpling slightly in his grip. He wanted to deny it, to bury the truth beneath duty and resolve, but the beast inside him growled in acknowledgment. He had hidden it for years—the scar on his chest, the fevered dreams, the nights when the moon's pull was so strong he could barely keep his humanity intact. The Suldari's return had awakened something in him, something he could no longer ignore.
"We fight," he said, his voice rough with suppressed rage. "But not like men. We fight like monsters."
Kiera's eyes narrowed, searching his face. "And how do we do that? We're soldiers, not sorcerers. We can't match their magic—or their claws."
Magnus turned to her at last, his gaze burning with a fire that was both human and not. "We find the source of their power. The Forbidden Citadel. It's where the curse was born, and it's where we'll end it."
Kiera's breath caught. "The Citadel? That place is a death trap. No one who's gone near it has come back human—if they come back at all."
"Then we'll be the first," Magnus growled. "The Citadel holds the heart of the curse—a relic, a ritual, something that binds the Suldari to their beasts. If we destroy it, we break their power. And mine."
The admission hung between them, heavy as the storm clouds above. Kiera's expression softened, but only for a moment.
"You think you can control it? The thing inside you?"
"I don't have a choice," Magnus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I don't, it'll consume me. And everyone I've sworn to protect."
Before Kiera could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with an unnatural grace that set Magnus's nerves on edge. Elyon, the rogue sorcerer, stepped into the moonlight, his pale skin almost glowing, his eyes glinting like a wolf's. Once a revered mage of Eryndor's court, Elyon had been exiled for delving into forbidden rites—rites that had left him more than human, and less. His presence was a cold blade against the skin, but Magnus knew they needed him. Only someone who had danced with darkness could guide them through it.
"Lord Virek," Elyon purred, his voice a low, predatory hum. "You seek to cage the beast, yet you carry its mark. How… poetic."
Magnus's hand instinctively went to the sword at his hip, though he knew steel was useless against Elyon's kind. "I'm not here for games, sorcerer. You know the Suldari's power. You know the Citadel. Help us destroy the curse, and I'll give you what you want."
Elyon's lips curled into a smile that was all teeth. "And what do I want, Magnus? Power? Knowledge? Or perhaps… freedom from my own chains?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To break the curse, you'll need more than fire and fury. You'll need a sacrifice. A life touched by the curse, yet pure of heart. Only such a soul can unmake what was made."
Magnus's blood ran cold. A sacrifice. The words clawed at him, stirring memories of pain, of loss, of the night the curse had first claimed him. He thought of Kiera, of his men, of the kingdom he had sworn to protect. Who among them could bear such a cost? And could he make that choice?
"We march for the Black Hills at dawn," Magnus said, his voice like iron. "You'll come with us, Elyon. You'll show us the way."
Elyon inclined his head, his smile never fading. "As you wish, my lord. But beware—the Citadel is no mere ruin. It is alive. And it hungers."
As Elyon melted back into the shadows, Magnus turned to Kiera. Her face was grim, but her eyes burned with the same resolve that had carried them through countless battles.
"We're walking into hell," she said.
Magnus nodded, his hand brushing the scar beneath his armor, where the beast's mark pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Then we'll bring hell with us."
The camp stirred as the first howls echoed from the distant hills, sharp and mournful, a chorus of hunger and rage. The Suldari were coming. And with them, the curse that would either break Magnus or unleash the monster within.
The kingdom's fate rested on his shoulders, and as the moon rose higher, he felt its pull, a siren's call to surrender.
He would not surrender.
Not yet.